


Agent M

by RinTheHufflepuff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, F/F, F/M, I will add more as I go, Multi, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, SHIELD, Slow Burn, allusions to past non-con, farm life, google translate will be my downfall one of these days, kind of, powered reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24332833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RinTheHufflepuff/pseuds/RinTheHufflepuff
Summary: You’ve been on the run for four years, never staying in one place too long, until you stumble across an abandoned house that seems the perfect place to bunker down in for the winter.  Just as you’re getting comfortable, however, and the seasons start to change, the homeowners appear and they are far different from anything you could have expected.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Nothing but some mild panic and language in this part.

You thought you had found the perfect place when you stumbled across the run-down farmhouse. It was nearly half-an-hour away from the nearest town and situated on a fair amount of land with plenty of surrounding forest to disappear into if need be. The house and land looked abandoned, though you couldn’t imagine why it would be when it looked like such a wonderful place. Well, it would be wonderful once it was fixed up.

The cream paneling was more beige from the weather and was cracked in places. The green-tiled roof had places where birds and other critters had nested and damaged the structure. A few green window shutters limply hung where they should, but most of the windows were shattered or cracked and were missing their shutters. The wrap around porch you had always dreamed of having had collapsed in places from rotted wood and the rickety stairs had rusted nails sticking out in the oddest places. Nearly half the exterior had some sort of plant growing against it in some manner or another.

Inside wasn’t much better. It looked like whoever the house had belonged to before being abandoned had gutted the place, tearing up whatever they had owned with no regard for the damage they had left behind. Stray hooks and wires littered the wall along with random holes that you couldn't be sure the origin of. Mold had taken a firm hold in what had probably once been the kitchen as well as the bathrooms. The paint was chipped and peeling in every room, and there were some very odd-looking stains on the floor. The only furniture in the house was a lumpy couch with exposed springs and a wire bed frame that looked as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. The whole place smelled too, making it obvious that animals and the elements had been claiming the interior just as much as the exterior.

Still, it was better than sleeping on the ground outside with a tarp that tended to not completely shield you from the wind and rain. With the November air becoming colder by the day, you were becoming desperate and the house was big enough you were sure you could find someplace to curl up and sleep without freezing to death. 

It took all of three days for you to decide that the house was less of a temporary situation and more of a semi-permanent situation. You were running low on money and after finding a bike in the battered barn behind the house, you rode into town and found a job as a mechanic that would pay cash without too many questions asked. It wasn’t the best job, your pay was lower than it should have been and you worked irregular hours because you were an unknown commodity in this town, but it paid for the bare essentials to keep you clean, fed, and warm. Most of the money, though, you squirreled away for an emergency. What you could afford to go without you adamantly avoided. Most of your food came from setting up small traps around the house’s land, which also meant you could get a little more money off the pelts you skinned, out of dented cans from the dollar store, and discarded food you fished out of the dumpsters of grocery stores or restaurants. It wasn't the most pleasant way to live, or the most comfortable, there were plenty of days you had nearly nothing to eat, but it was far better than the life you had been living before. Leaps and bounds better, and you wouldn’t change how you were living if it meant going back to that life.

When you weren’t working at the garage or scrounging for food, you were slowly repairing the house.

It had not been your intention to repair anything major, just the room you were staying in, but there was something so satisfying about fixing the dilapidated home that you found yourself doing random repairs for anything you could do without spending too much money. At least, at first. By January you were spending more on the house repairs than yourself and if you were in the house you were working on repairing it. You didn’t bother to buy furniture or paint the walls or make it any more of a home, but you spent hours upon hours working on the main structure, making the fireplace functional, replacing the window panes one at a time, and fixing what you could of the roof from inside the house. By February, the mold was gone as well as the wires and critters. It still was not a place most people would want to live, but it looked worlds better than when you had first crept inside. Without meaning to, you became attached to the house and you found yourself dreading the day you would have to leave and go back to camping in the woods. At least no one else had appeared on the property while you were squatting there. 

Until one afternoon in the middle of March.

You were making your way back to the house from the river nearby when you felt like someone was watching you. Shrugging it off and blaming the feeling on your near-constant paranoia, you left the safety of the woods and used the back door to get into the kitchen. You hadn’t caught much, living on your own and being used to eating very little, you didn't need to, but you had managed to catch two catfish that would serve as lunch and dinner for the day. Just as you were skinning it, you heard a creak from behind you and a smooth female voice.

“So, catfish for lunch?” Gripping the knife, you spin to come nearly nose to nose with a very pretty, and slightly annoyed looking, redhead. “I hope you’re making enough for all of us.”

You squeaked and tried to back up, but you just bumped into the counter where you had been working and you realized that you were effectively trapped unless you could dart to one side and run like hell. But then you would lose all your belongings, meager as they were. This wasn’t something you were prepared for. Living in the woods? Uncomfortable but doable. Squatting in empty buildings when you thought you could get away with it? Better than the woods when it was cold, but not by much. Fixing things? It didn’t matter what it was, you could make it better than before - somehow you could fix anything you touched. A masters degree in electrical engineering and doctorate in mechanical engineering from Stanford helped. Confrontation? You were useless. If it weren’t for the counter you were currently clinging to you would probably be on the floor.

“Awe, come on now, got nothing to say? How about an introduction.” When you don’t say anything, she grins. It’s all teeth and harsh angles, and the woman looks like she could very easily tear you to sheds. “Are we shy, or do we not speak English,” she purred, enjoying how your eyes darted around the space, desperately trying to find a quick exit to where you were keeping your things.

At the front of the house, you could hear the door open and close, something heavy hitting the floor, and the jangle of metal. Chains? Handcuffs? She wasn’t wearing a police uniform, but that didn’t mean anything. 

“Nat, you camping in the living room?” You flinched at the deeper voice as it echoed off the walls.

“No, it looks like we have a guest,” the woman - Nat - called back, not breaking eye contact with you.

“What do you mean- who the fuck are you,” a man yelled, rounding the corner, clad in combat clothing that has been torn and stained. You did not recognize the emblem on his vest, but that didn’t mean anything either. Burn marks and what looked like sutured stab wounds were littered across his muscular arms making him look even more intimidating. The yelling did you in. The boning knife you had been clutching in your hand clattered to the ground and you slid down and cowered against the cupboard, a ringing sound drowning out everything as your breathing went from a little quick to fast and shallow all at once. The woman frowned and took a step back, yelling something in a language you didn’t understand, but it sounded harsh. You screwed your eyes shut as a freezing feeling settled in your stomach and your throat felt like it closed off. As the ringing got louder you clamped the heels of your hands over your ears. But it was still there. Ringing. Yelling. Screaming. Crying. The cold spread across your whole body as you shook. Banging. Crashing. Smashing. So cold.

And then you felt warm. 

Something heavy and warm pushed at your side and your legs, making you unfold a bit. As soon as there was enough space, you felt the heavy warmth settle in your lap and nuzzle your face and arms. It was soft. Slowly, the noises subsided until you were left in silence and the numbing cold retreated. You were still scared though.

“Hey, you’re gonna be okay.” Your eyes were still closed, but you knew it was the same male who had spoken, except his voice was much softer, barely above a whisper. 

Opening your eyes, you found both the redhead and the man crouched in front of you while a large golden retriever lay on your lap with his tongue lolling out of its mouth.

“That was one nasty attack,” the man said, a sympathetic smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I promise we aren’t gonna hurt you, you just surprised me is all. I kinda expected this place to be empty. My name’s Clint, and this is my...friend Natasha. That great lump there, in your lap, is Lucky.”

“This...this is your house. Isn’t it,” you asked, focusing on the dog in your lap. Lucky nudged his head into your hand, not so subtly asking for you to pet him. Tentatively, you scratched his ear a little and he leaned into it.

“Yeah, though I’m guessing it’s more your place than mine by now. How long’ve you been here? I won’t be mad, it’s not like I’m here all that often.”

“Few months,” you whispered. “Needed - needed someplace to keep warm.”

“So you’re homeless then,” Natasha asked, the bite gone out of her voice. You nodded and she huffed, standing and leaving the room. 

“I’ll leave, it’s gettin’ warm out again,” you mutter, looking up a little so your eyes were trained on the bird emblem on Clint’s uniform. “Promise I will - just don’t call the cops. They...they…”

“Hey, I won’t call anyone,” Clint said, sitting fully on the floor and taking a quiver of arrows and a collapsed bow off his back. “Natasha and I try to avoid local law enforcement whenever we can - makes a bit of a mess if we don’t. Plus, as far as I’m concerned, you can stay. Like I said, I’m not here much. I’d have to talk to Natasha, and you’d have to, erm, agree to some terms, probably learn a thing or two while we’re here to teach you, but I’m more than fine with you keeping this place standing while I’m gone.”

“You don’t have to do any of that,” you frowned. 

“Maybe not, but you look like you’re comfortable here and I’d be a dick if I kicked you out.”

“You’re already a dick, Clint,” Natasha yelled from somewhere, obviously having been listening to the conversation. “She can stay, but she’s gotta help clean this dump.”

“Well, I guess that settles that then,” Clint chuckles. “So, first things first, what’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you Y/N. Now, Nat said something about catfish…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Language

The next few weeks were more than a little awkward for you, but Clint and Natasha didn’t seem to mind. Over lunch that first day, Natasha explained she and Clint had odd jobs that required them to be absent fairly often and more often than not ended up being more than a little dangerous. This meant that you would be doing most of the housework once they left, but they would make sure the electricity was kept on and they would set up a joint account for taking care of the house so you wouldn’t have to spend too much of your personal money. Clint had gone on to lay down a few rules that neither he nor Natasha elaborated on.

Rule one, the basement was off-limits unless there was an emergency. Unless a murderer was chasing you - you chuckled nervously but Clint’s voice was very serious - or a tornado blowing through, the basement was to remain locked and essentially forgotten. You weren’t even allowed to help renovate it. The door inside the house would be locked and the key kept next to the door frame while the entrance by way of the cellar doors on the exterior would be chained shut. The pair insisted it was for your safety and you didn’t bother pushing the topic. You were lucky they were letting you stay.

Rule two, if anyone asked, you lived alone and had never seen or heard of Clint or Natasha. Natasha said she would draw up an NDA that would make what you could and couldn’t talk about more clear, but until then you were, essentially, sworn to silence. When you asked if you could talk about Clint to Natasha and vice versa, Natasha groaned and complained that she had been tricked into sharing a house with two dorks rather than one. Clint just smiled and gave you a thumbs up in approval.

Rule three, no bringing people to the house. If something needed to be fixed while Clint and Natasha were away, either you needed to fix it yourself or you had to wait for them to come back. When you explained that you had already been fixing up the house, to begin with, Clint had you talk him through what you had already done. Apparently, he had not been in the house for over a year by the time you had found it and he had not realized that what he had seen upon arriving was only because you had been working on the house for months on end. Clint assured you the longest you would be alone now that he was back was a month - either he or Natasha would try to be at the house when they weren’t working. 

You were the one to insist on rule number four - if Clint or Natasha needed anything fixed, whether it was at the house or while they were doing whatever it was their job entailed, they would give you a call. You had a phone, a small flip phone that you paid for by the minute, that you used for work. You insisted both people at the table put that number in their phones. When Natasha asked why you’d just shrugged and said, “Cheaper to get talked through it than pay some guy who might not know what they’re doing.”

In return for rule four, Natasha insisted on rule five - you had to call both Clint and Natasha in an emergency if they weren’t with you. If you had to go to the hospital, you had to call them. If someone broke into the house, you had to call them. If you felt unsafe or felt like you needed to leave, you had to call them. While you had insisted on rule four to be nice, the way Natasha stared at you and Clint’s firm voice insisted you pull out your phone that minute to put their numbers in, made you shift uncomfortably. Yes, it was nice to think that maybe you could all get along, but you hadn’t trusted anyone to more than stab you in the back for a very long time. The concern was foreign at this point and with the way Natasha scooted a little closer, you felt like she knew. Maybe she did.

Rule number six was an unspoken rule. You were responsible for Lucky when Clint and Natasha weren’t around. You didn’t mind in the slightest, the one-eyed retriever had kept his head in your leg the whole lunch while you occasionally scratched behind his ear when you got too nervous. Clint didn’t say much about what exactly happened, but apparently, he had taken Lucky in on one of his job assignments. When his employer refused to let him keep the dog without some sort of training, Clint had gotten Lucky into a program to be a licensed therapy dog. Whatever Natasha had been yelling earlier had been his command to come to them, which made you feel a little better. You’d never had a therapy dog before, how could you afford one, let alone take care of it, while you were living in the woods? Natasha promised to teach you his commands when she had time.

After that lunch, you had shown the pair around the house and explained the repairs you had already started in more detail. Clint pointed out some of the rooms to you as you went, but some of the rooms he simply ignored despite them obviously having been used at some point. You couldn’t be sure, you did your best to avoid looking anywhere near the man’s eyes, but he seemed particularly distressed when you came across the room with the broken wire bed frame. Clint said you could have that room instead of sleeping on the couch as you had been for the past few months. Clearly, he had been avoiding the house rather than just not having the time to visit between jobs, but you kept your mouth shut. It wasn’t your business what Clint did.

Over the next few days, the house started getting new furniture. Natasha dropped the bed frame off at the dump and she and Clint picked up two new wooden frames along with mattresses, one of which was for you as the two of them shared a bed. Even though you appreciated the gesture, you had slept on the floor for a few nights before you got used to sleeping in a bed again. Kitchen appliances started showing up as well and you would install them at night when you couldn’t sleep. You had to admit, it was nice to not have to use the fireplace to cook food. 

You would go to work before the sun had fully risen, just as you had been, but when you came back to the house there were always small improvements. Cans of paint would appear, the holes in the wall would disappear - one day the wall between the kitchen and living room simply vanished - and the floors would get cleaned or ripped up and replaced. You usually worked on projects alone while Clint and Natasha would tackle whatever they had decided on while you were at the garage, but every so often you would join them or one of them would wordlessly lend a hand when you would struggle.

Meals were often the most awkward bit of your new living arrangement. With Clint and Natasha living in the house and helping pay for repairs and appliances, you had more money for food - which they also helped pay for despite your protests. Usually, it was you who cooked since Clint and Natasha were usually so tired by the time you got home. How they were so worn out, you could never figure out because you seemed to run off of endless amounts of energy, especially after being at the garage all day. The meals themselves were usually simple and cheap but nutrient-packed in simple ways you had learned over the years. Clint and Natasha never seemed to mind, though, seemingly enjoying having food that had been made in their home rather than an industrial kitchen like they were used to at their company. Every once in a rare while, Natasha would cook, usually something you had never had before with some foreign name. On those nights you would sit at the small table and quietly watch, letting her jabber away at you and sometimes asking questions about whatever it was she was doing. She was always more than happy to share. Clint, on the other hand, never cooked. Natasha had explained that she had banned him from doing so several years ago after an accident while they were working abroad. The awkward bit was always the eating part when all three of you were in the same room. You hadn’t taken long to warm up to Natasha as much as any other person you had known in the past few years, but you never knew what to say to Clint. You didn’t dislike him, he actually seemed quite nice and he always made an effort to include you in conversation, but you didn’t know how to interact with him. You still couldn’t look him in the eye, let alone hold a full conversation with the man. 

Weekends weren’t as terrible as you had initially assumed. You still woke up as if you were going to work, but instead of working on the house, you would get dressed and work on the barn for a little bit - a project you hadn’t even considered before Clint and Natasha showed up. Though neither one ever said anything while you were working on the building, you could often feel their gaze following you as you worked. 

The barn itself was very well built, the foundation built well below the frost line and the main structure was still as sturdy as you imagined it had always been. Most of what was stored in there, however, was junk. Some bits you could scrap or reuse, but most of the tools were rusted or rotted and practically useless. The tractor was broken down, a project you couldn’t shake from your mind and were excited to take once the barn was finished. From about dawn to dusk Fridays through Sundays you would work on the barn. 

It wasn’t until the end of June that the pair had to separate. 

“Well, it looks like it’ll just be you and Nat for a while, Y/N,” Clint sighed over lunch one Friday. The pair had managed to distract you from the barn long enough to shove a sandwich in your hands as a quick lunch, knowing you wouldn’t eat until late unless they did so. “Work called me in so I’m taking off in about an hour, but I shouldn’t be gone too long - two weeks at most. Think you can handle Nat on your own?” Natasha playfully swatted at him while you nodded. You knew with Clint gone Nat would look to you for company.

You weren’t wrong. It took all five hours after you heard Clint's truck pull out that Natasha appeared on the ground level of the barn while you were working on patching a section of the roof. 

“So, where are you from?” You sighed at the inevitable line of questioning. If anything, you were surprised it had taken three months for it to start.

“Florida, ‘round the Tampa area,” you huffed, wriggling a bit on your back to try and get a good angle. “Guessing you aren’t from anywhere around here - my guess is Russia, but I’ve been wrong before.”

“What gave it away?”

“Yelling in a foreign language kinda does it, plus you talk to yourself in it all the time,” you grunted, nearly hitting your hand with the hammer as you drove the spike into the beam. “It took me a while to figure out it was Russan though, kept trying to block it out. Might have not meant anything if it was Spanish, could’ve had an immigrant in your close family. Plus you make foreign food, kinda screams “I’m not from here.” Not that it’s not good, I’ll let you make that beet soup thing any time you want.”

“Huh,” is all she says in reply. For a while, you work in silence before she’s asking other questions. “Where’d you learn to fix cars? That’s what you do right, work at the garage in town?”

“Picked it up as a kid, dad owned a chop-shop.” True enough, just not the whole truth. “Ended up going to college for engineering.”

“Really?” You paused and looked down at Natasha to see she was already staring up at you. She actually sounded interested in that bit of information and it made your stomach flip. “Auto-engineering’s kinda cool, I’ve picked up a bit of it myself.”

“Well, uh, the auto stuff I already knew,” you admitted. “Chop-shop kid, remember? I, erm, I - I went for mechanical engineering at first. Thought I’d expand my horizons a bit.”

“At first? What did you change to?”

“Well, I ended up with a mas- fuck that hurt - masters in electrical. The doctorate, though, is in mechanical engineering. That didn’t change.” You rolled and sat on the edge of the upper level so your legs dangled above the floor below. Natasha looked surprised at the news, though you couldn’t be sure if it was because she assumed you hadn't received a formal education or achieved the level of education you had. Maybe it was both. 

“You’ve never mentioned a doctorate,” the redhead frowns. “How come? It’s pretty cool. Nerdy, but cool.”

“No one’s ever been interested before,” you shrugged. “Most people don’t care about that kind of stuff, yeh know?”

“But, Y/N you could do just about anything you wanted with those areas of engineering with that kind of education.” She wanted to know why you were at the garage. Why you had been homeless until she and Clint let you stay with them. 

You just shrugged and rolled back to continue working on the section of roof you had been repairing when she arrived. You didn't want to talk about it - any of it. Seeming to understand that the conversation was over, Natasha started talking about the project she had just finished and what she was thinking about starting while Clint was gone. She wanted your help painting the rooms that were finished - the kitchen, living room, and the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms. She wanted your opinions on colors, on if you thought she should get Clint to make the windows in some rooms bigger to let in more natural light rather than relying on artificial light. She wanted to know if you could figure out a way to make a large spice storage and pantry that would be unobtrusive and a little tucked away. Did you think that she should remove the ivy that still clung to the house or try to cultivate it, cut it back and reshape it so that it looked like it belonged rather than being just an annoyance? Should she surprise Clint and paint their bedroom - you would need to help pick out the color for that as well - or should she wait for him to come home? 

You couldn’t help but feel remarkably domestic and, dare you say it, _normal_ as Natasha talked. You moved from one project to the next the rest of the day and she just kept chatting away while you occasionally gave one or two-word answers. At first, it was because you were annoyed, this was your barn time - something you had designated as sacred alone time - but slowly it turned into a game. How little could you say while also answering Natasha’s no longer personal questions? It was easier than you had thought to slip into some sort of comfortable space with her, even though Clint - who you had thought of as a human buffer between you and Natasha - had left. You weren’t sure how she did it, but by the time the sun was just about gone, you had come to enjoy the game of few worded answers that she had coaxed you into playing. Because she had coaxed you into playing, you realized as you munched on a hamburger. It was something you were quickly realizing about Natasha, she had a talent for getting you to do things without you realizing she was the one pulling the strings until after the fact. 

Saturday morning was another break in the routine you had grown accustomed to with Clint and Natasha in the house. Natasha was already up when you crept downstairs to grab your usual cereal bar before you set out to work on the siding for the barn. Natasha was curled up on the couch, a book in her lap, and when you didn't spot any sort of foodstuffs near her, you figured she hadn’t eaten yet. You hesitate for only a moment before ducking onto the kitchen and making some scrambled eggs with cheese and bits of bacon. By the time you had finished, she hadn’t moved from her spot so you fixed a cup of coffee like you had seen Clint do several times - cold, from the carafe in the fridge, with a splash of half-n-half and a spoon of sweetener. You wordlessly deposited the plate and mug on the box you had all been using as a coffee table before setting out to start repairs for the day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Language, mentions of abuse

By the next Friday, you knew something was wrong. Natasha was, yet again, awake before you and curled up on the couch with Lucky laying across her lap. What made you worry were the circles under her eyes, how the whole day she seemed slower with whatever she was doing. You didn’t say anything all day, simply lending a hand around the house rather than working in the barn, but once you had finished dinner you had decided you had to say something. It was obvious that Natasha wasn’t sleeping without Clint.

“Tasha,” you called, feeling the oddness of the shortened name on your tongue as you leaned against the nearly completed breakfast bar. You only received a half-hearted hum in response so you locked your jaw and crouched in front of where the woman still sat at the table. “We need to go to bed, Tasha.”

“I’ll see you in the morning then,” the redhead said, offering you a strained smile.

“No, Tasha,” you frowned, hesitantly touching her hand, “we both need to sleep. You’re tired, it’s not hard to see ‘cause, I’m sorry, but you look like absolute shit. Why don’t you stay with me? It...it’s always hard sleeping alone if you’re used to sharing a bed, I get that, but Clint would be worried.”

“You sure?” Natasha sounded as exhausted as she looked, but there was still that careful hesitance she often directed towards you. It wasn’t because she was shy or scared, no that was your thing, but because she was being careful. Careful of what, you couldn’t say, but you had grown to trust her more than you had trusted anyone since you were a child, and you were worried about her.

“Of course,” you soothed, offering a small smile. “Your room or mine?” You could have sworn you saw the edges of her lips curl up as you squeezed her hand a little and stood up.

So, for the next several days, you spend your nights in Clint and Natasha’s room, sharing a bed with the woman you had finally felt brave enough to call a friend. Lucky would sleep at the foot of the bed, something he normally did with you since Clint and Natasha usually kept their door closed at night. The first few nights you slept on the very edge of the mattress, not wanting to get too close, but you would always wake up cuddled up to Natasha’s side so you eventually abandoned the attempt at keeping space between you and went straight to curling into her side. 

You kept finding yourself much better rested the next morning than when you were sleeping alone and you had to admit how unbelievably safe you felt curled up with Natasha. You talked more during the day, even holding full conversations with the men at the garage when you went to work that week. It wasn’t until that Thursday when you realized how much you would miss not being able to sleep with Natasha once Clint was home. 

You had woken up in a cold sweat, tears burning your eyes and your throat clenching mid sob. Every so often you would find yourself like this after a particularly bad nightmare, your skin prickling at the memory of pain and your sleep-addled brain convincing you that you weren’t where you had fallen asleep. Normally, you would roll out of bed and just work on house repairs until you had to go to work or until you had to stop for food, but you didn’t want to disturb Natasha. 

Except she was what had woken you up.

A cool cloth pressed against your face and it took you a few moments to calm yourself enough to recognize that Natasha was speaking softly in Russian.

“Did, did I wake you up,” you asked, trying to pull yourself into a sitting position. Try being the operative word because Natasha just pressed her hand to your shoulder to keep you nestled against the pillows.

“Shh, Myshka, I was already awake,” Natasha murmured, shifting the cloth from your face to your neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You didn’t, not really, but Natasha’s voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it and her touch is so gentle. You had not been touched this carefully in years, not since you were a child. It helped that the room was dark, the slight glow from the alarm clock and hallway light giving the barest of impressions of Natasha’s outline.

“He wouldn’t stop h-hitting me,” you whispered, terrified that if you spoke too loudly the man that haunted your nightmares would leap out from the shadows. “Everything hurt so much and-and then he locked me in the fr-freezer. Said he’d let me out in the morning, ‘cept it...he…” Your voice cracks and you let out a small sob. You could feel it, the cold seeping through your skin and into your bones, the ache in your muscles from the beatings. Before you can go too far, Lucky has laid himself along your body and nuzzles your face, his hot, dog breath fanning across your skin.

“Y/N, I promise you’re safe here,” Natasha soothes, carefully brushing your hair out of your face. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, and I know Clint won’t let anyone hurt you either...You don't need to be scared of him, you know - he really is a good guy.” Natasha removes the now warm cloth and crawls back under the covers, her arms snaking around you ever so loosely and you find yourself curling into her and hiding your face in the crook of her neck. “He got me my job, you know - at our company.” Her fingers slowly trail up your arms in calming patterns. “Clint found me on one of his assignments and he took me in, stood up for me when his boss wanted me locked up. The dork even trained me because he knew I didn’t trust anyone other than him.”

“I didn't know.”

“Why would you,” Natasha chuckled. “We try not to talk about work too much when we’re here.”

“Yeah, but...I just feel like a jerk now,” you huffed. “I’ve been living with you and Clint for months and all I’ve done is skirt around you even though you’re letting me stay in your home. You don’t even know me!”

“You were being careful, Y/N, we understand that better than you might think.” You lapsed into silence after that, but it wasn’t awkward. Natasha was warm and comfortable, and Lucky’s weight, still on your legs and torso, was grounding after the nightmare. Eventually, the hum of the ceiling fan and Natasha’s even breathing lulled you back into a dreamless sleep, deeper than you had had since you ran away four years ago.

><><><><><

When Natasha woke hours later, she was surprised to find you still curled into her side. She had fully expected you to be gone when she woke up, the spot you had occupied cold. But there you were, face more relaxed than she had ever seen before, lips slightly parted and your H/C hair still tucked behind your ear from when she had fixed it earlier that morning. 

She didn't want to admit it, but you had scared her. Clint had called, he was on his way back from Spain and he’d wanted to let her know he was safe and only slightly scratched up. He’d been chatting, asking about you and what you and she had been up to without him when Natasha heard you scream. Being an agent, she was used to screaming - pained, panicked, scared - and somehow yours managed to be all three at once, echoing through the house and making her heart leap into her throat. She’d rushed to the sink and dampened a cloth - just as she always did for Clint when he had night terrors - while explaining her sudden worry to the archer. Clint promised he would try and hurry back and she rushed up to her and Clint’s room where you were thrashing in the bed. You were covered in a thin sheen of sweat, but you were shivering and pale, your cheeks littered with tear streaks. Natasha hadn’t seen an episode this bad in years. That it was happening to you of all people had made her stomach twist.

As carefully as she could, Natasha slipped out of bed before bunching the blankets around you and tucking her pillow under your head so it was propped in the same position. Lucky had moved to the end of the bed during the night, but with a whispered command he moved to lay so that his head rested on your hip where Natasha’s arm had been only a few moments ago. Ever so briefly, your nose scrunched and your hazel eyes fluttered open. Natasha was sure that you would get up, but you only got out a slurred request for her to put on a pot of coffee for Clint before you were asleep again. 

Natasha couldn’t be sure how long you would sleep, it was rare that she would see you express your exhaustion - let alone wake after the sun had risen, - but something told her it wouldn’t be too long until you were awake and ready to get to work. Natasha knew you didn’t eat real breakfasts, she would come down in the morning and, often, the only indication that you had even been in the kitchen would be a cereal bar wrapper in the trash. You had made her breakfast when Clint left and she had spent the night reading on the couch, but you had made just a single portion and left as soon as you had given it to her. Today, however, she would make sure you would eat breakfast. You deserved it, especially after the night you had.

Remembering your fondness for the Russian dishes she sometimes made, Natasha spent longer than she normally would have to make syrniki batter, because if she was going to make you breakfast, she was going to do it right. Natasha couldn’t help but grin as she worked, the motions familiar and easy. More than that, though, they were domestic - something Natasha had never dreamed she would be able to achieve after the Red Room and her years at S.H.I.E.L.D. 

It’s just as the coffee machine beeps that Natasha hears Clint’s truck sputter up to the house. It was a piece of junk, the engine cutting out every so often, and it occurred to Natasha that she should ask you to take a look at the poor thing before Clint drives it into the ground just like he’s done with everything else he has ever owned.

“Hey, Nat,” Clint smiled, slouching against the doorframe, duffle bag still slung over his shoulder.

“Hey yourself,” Natasha smirks, kissing the corner of his mouth. “How was the mission?”

“Fine, nothing too exciting besides one of my hearing aids getting busted,” Clint hums, fishing the purple device out of his pocket. “What about you? What happened last night?”

“Night terror. Clint, I think-” Natasha cut herself off as you shuffled into the kitchen. You were already dressed in your usual threadbare jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Wordlessly, you crept forward and plucked Clint’s hearing aid out of his hand. You study it for only a moment before your face pinches in slight disgust and you turn and go back upstairs.

“Well that wasn’t odd at all,” Clint chuckled. He reached around Natasha and pulled the coffee pot from the machine, inhaling the bitter steam with a small smile.

“I think after last night she’s going to be a little shy for a while,” Natasha sighed, turning to the stove. “Coffee’s fresh by the way, Y/N asked me to put on a pot for you.”

“You told her I’d be home today?”

“...No.” Natasha looked up from the stove and frowned. “No, I didn’t get the chance when I was calming her down, and she’s only just gotten up.”

“Here,” Clint and Natasha look to you as you wander back into the kitchen, screwing shut a panel on the side of Clint’s hearing aid with a few cut and stripped wires clutched in your teeth. “Don’t know what you did to mess it up but it’ll work now,” you mutter, setting the device on the table and discarding the wires. “Enjoy breakfast.” Without another word, you make to walk out the back door, presumably to go to the barn, Lucky at your heels.

“You don't want breakfast?” You turn to stare at Natasha and blink.

“I...I thought it was for you and Clint,” you frown. Natasha watches as your hand twitches towards Lucky and your eyes dart to the archer who was situating the repaired hearing aid where he wanted it. Clint made you nervous, Natasha knew that. After last night, however, Natasha was beginning to think men, in general, put you on edge, though she only ever saw you around Clint so she couldn't be sure.

Natasha gave a small smile and pointed to the three plates stacked next to the stove. “No, Myshka, I made food for all of us. Sit, relax for once, the barn will still be there after breakfast.”

“I guess,” you sighed, taking the seat Clint had nudged out with his foot. “It’s not like we’re storing wet hay and have to worry about spontaneous combustion.”

“That can happen?” Natasha smirked and watched in the reflection of the toaster as you glance towards Clint.

“Mhm, if hay is stored when the moisture is above, erm, twenty to twenty-five percent there’s a chance that it can, you know...fwoosh,” you murmur, making a small explosion gesture with your hands. Natasha quietly chuckled and Clint nodded his head, completely engrossed. Natasha could tell it made you uncomfortable.

“But why does it fwoosh,” Clint asked, leaning back in his chair. As dense as Clint could be, Natasha was glad he knew enough to not get closer to you.

“Well, erm, if hay is stored that damp it can heat up real fast, and if the temperature reaches above one hundred thirty degrees there’s this reaction - it doesn’t need oxygen to happen - that releases chemicals. Anyway, the, uh, gasses that are produced are flammable and at the point of production, the temperature is already above their ignition point, so if those gasses get in contact with the air they will probably ignite and catch everything on fire.” 

You’re distracted enough trying to explain the process to Clint that you don't notice when Natasha slips a plate in front of you and you automatically start eating, making an appreciative humming noise as you do. You’re still not relaxed, and Natasha is still mulling over how you knew Clint was going to be home when she had never told you, but you’re talking to Clint and making an attempt to look at his face while you did so. Two weeks of just you and she had meant making a little progress. Now she just had to maintain the progression with Clint home.

><><><><><

You struggle to sleep that night, tossing and turning in your bed. You can’t get warm enough, even with the extra blanket you had fished out from the bottom of the closet where Natasha had been storing the linens. The room is too quiet as well, but also too loud. The crickets droned on incessantly and the oscillating of the fan made you groan in frustration. Huffing, you throw a pillow to the floor and try to sleep on the hardwood you and Natasha had polished a few days ago. Another hour of rolling and readjusting and you still couldn’t sleep. 

Resigning yourself to the fact that it was going to be one of _those_ nights, you got dressed and gathered your laundry, figuring you may as well work while you were awake. Once you had started the washer, you went out to the barn, a can of paint in either hand. Flipping on a light stand you had rigged up not too long after Clint and Natasha initially arrived, you paint through the night. By the time the sun has risen and you’ve changed into your oil-stained, work jumpsuit the barn is a vibrant red. The paint job meant the structure was complete. Inside the barn, there were still jobs to be done, but they were all cosmetic and some of them couldn’t really be done until you asked Clint what he actually wanted to do with the barn.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Language, guns, blood, panic
> 
> I just realized that I don't know if the {{Y/N}} input is changing to your name or if it's showing up as mine. If that's a thing let me know because I'm not sure if I keep all my personal inputs of I turn the InteractiveFics extension off (which everyone on Chrome should be using!)

You were on edge all day. After another night of no sleep - you had instead spent the night doing odd jobs around the house that you deemed quiet enough to not wake Clint and Natasha - you were exhausted, but the buzz of machinery kept you awake as it always did. There wasn’t anything wrong at work, you had gotten a small pay increase from Mr. Wormwood, who owned the garage, and the rest of the workers had fully accepted that you were shy but good at your job - better than the rest of them and able to fix anything they threw at you. No, what had you jumpy was the white Ford Crown Victoria with a black stripe and large red letters clearly spelling out who owned the car. 

Thus far, you had managed to avoid the police. Living in the woods meant you saw them every once in a while when you came across a road, but you hadn’t come in contact with an officer in four years. You do your best to not fidget too much, but once the garage closes, you know you can’t ride home on the road. The police car is still parked just down the road. You get the distinct impression it’s waiting for you.

You’re relieved that the garage sits on the edge of the woods and that you park your bike in the back. With one last look at the cruiser, you begin the long walk through the woods with your bike at your side. You had scouted the area several months ago when you first came upon the town, but with the trees and other vegetation thriving and green in the summer heat, you were having trouble picking your way towards the house. You spent hours just wandering, careful to not stray towards where you thought the road was in case there were cars patrolling for you. 

You had to leave. You had to pack your bag and run as far away as you could. You shouldn’t have stayed once winter broke. You had been stupid, so very stupid. Of course, he would find you.

It’s nearly dark by the time you know where you are, the house just visible through the trees and you sigh in relief. Then the shot of a gun. A dog barking. Angry yelling. For a split second, you freeze. Then, you’re running, crashing through the trees and bushes and overgrown grass. The river. You had to make it to the river! Panic and adrenaline surge through you as they hadn’t in years, not since you were spotted in Alabama. You can’t be bothered to try and be silent as you move because the dogs could catch you anyway. They could scent you now that they had been to the house. The river would help, the moving water would help mask your smell and they might lose you. 

When you finally reach the river, you throw yourself into the mud and roll, doing your best to completely cover yourself in the muck. Only when you are satisfied that every inch of you is coated in mud do you wade into the river and let yourself drift downstream, careful to keep your head above the water to watch the banks and listen for movement. You can’t gauge how long you’ve been floating, but the sun has been gone for a long time and the cool night air has fully settled. Knowing you couldn’t use the river all night, you make your way to the bank and search for a place to hunker down for the night. What you end up finding is a fallen tree. Though it’s long since dead, you know you can use the branches and the surrounding vegetation to help camouflage yourself.

You don’t sleep the whole night, terror fuelling you rather than mechanics. Every small noise makes you shrink into the grass and hold your breath. The cool night air is made worse by your wet clothes and hair and the mud caked to your skin. You can’t stand the cold, but you know you have no other choice. You couldn’t be caught.

><><><><><

Y/N wasn’t home. Clint had taken Natasha to the store to get whatever it was she needed for okroshka soup - another Russian dish she insisted on making for Y/N since you enjoyed when she made food from her homeland. Except, Natasha hadn’t been able to find everything so they ended up getting sausages and peppers to grill since it was getting late and they were sure you were wondering where they were. When he pulled up to the house, however, you were nowhere to be seen. He searched the barn first, then your room and the roof since you liked laying on the shingles and read whatever Natasha had “accidentally” left laying around the house. The bike you took to work, his old bike he would take into town when he was going alone and didn’t want to drive, wasn’t near the porch either. 

It is seven forty-five when a police cruiser pulls into the driveway and Clint can’t help but think about that first day. How you pleaded with him to not call the authorities. The panic so plane in your eyes that he would have done anything you asked at that moment. He doesn’t want to go out to investigate, but Natasha is scouring the woods nearby on the off chance you had decided to explore the property like he had suggested you do not too long ago. 

“Can I help you,” Clint asks, Lucky at his side. The dog was just as antsy as he was, pawing at the ground and looking around.

“I sure hope so,” the officer smiles, but it’s tight and his eyes aren’t focussed on Clint. His hand is already resting on his gun. “I’m looking for a woman. About Y/H tall, H/C hair, E/C eyes, pretty scared up with a small tattoo on her left hand that looks like a C with two lines on the bottom curve. She’s currently wanted in connection with a gang shooting in Florida a few weeks ago.”

Lies. Even without the timing being wrong, Clint can feel the lies wash over him and it pisses him off. 

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Clint shrugged. Lucky growled at his side and the officer narrowed his eyes. “Haven’t seen you around here, you new?” When the officer doesn’t answer Clint glances around the area thinking you had popped out of nowhere, but he’s still alone with the officer and Lucky. “Look, I’m going to need to see your badge, man. I don’t know you and you’re awful edgy for someone just looking for some woman.”

“No.” The brisk response sets him off and he gives Lucky the command to get Natasha. In the split-second Lucky begins to move, the officer draws his gun and fires, just barely missing the retriever as he dashed to the side and begins to bark for the Russian. 

“The fuck, man? Who the hell shoots a half-blind dog?” Clint can’t help but yell. You aren’t here to get scared over the noise so it doesn’t matter. If anything, yelling would just make Natasha get to him sooner.

“You’re the one harboring-”

“I suggest you leave before I have to do something you won’t have enough time to regret.” Natasha is at his side, gun drawn and her eyes trained on the officer. “Now!” It’s nothing less than an order and though the officer looks like he wants to shoot them both, he slowly backs up to his car and leaves. 

“Did you find her,” Clint asked, his hand buried in Lucky’s fur for comfort. Clint knew the local police, knew they wouldn’t ever come to his property without calling ahead because they were under the impression Clint was with the Feds. Whoever that was wasn’t any of the local guys - and he was looking for you.

“Thought I saw some movement on my way over here, but you were my priority,” Natasha sighs. “We should check it out now though, especially since she isn’t answering her phone…”

Clint doesn’t like the edge in Natasha’s voice, not at all. You were quiet, eerily so at times as you crept about as if you, yourself, were also a spy, but you had grown on the agents within days. After Clint’s two weeks away, Natasha had seemed so much closer with you, more attentive and relaxed. Clint knew whatever had happened while he was gone had created a severe attachment for his girlfriend. But then there was the issue of how once he had come back you didn’t seem to sleep. Dark circles had started appearing beneath your large, E/C eyes that made Natasha shift and steal glances at you and make more coffee than she normally would - even with Clint’s caffeine habit. He could hear you in the dead of night as you shuffled and grumbled as you made your way past their room to go work on some meaningless project to keep yourself awake. Something was upsetting you and now you were missing. 

“You should go check it out, just take Lucky with you. I’m going to call the station and see what was up with rent-a-cop,” Clint huffed, scanning the tree line. If Natasha had seen you, if you had tried to come back to them, you were either long gone or curled up nearby. He could only hope it was the latter option.

><><><><><

Natasha felt numb. The bike - _your_ bike - was abandoned in a bush just a few yards into the treeline. You had been here. Leading away from the bike was a trail of broken foliage that Lucky followed, his nose pressed to the ground, leading to the river where you liked to fish. Even in the dim light, she could make out a large disruption in the bank, the muddy indent just the right size to have been created by a person. By you. Swearing, Natasha pulled out her phone and called Clint. If you had bailed into the river...well the evenings were getting cooler and Natasha’s mind still rang with your words from all those nights ago. You wouldn’t be in your right mind to begin with and the cool evening air was going to make everything worse.

If you didn’t get tired out from trying to keep afloat in the current and drown. Natasha did her best to push that line of thought out of her mind.

“Nat? You there?”

“Yeah...I’m here,” Natasha replied, making her way down the river a bit. You wouldn’t have tried to swim upstream. “I’m ninety percent sure she was nearby when the gunshot went off. It looks like she panicked and jumped into the river - she went full stealth too, I found a pretty good hole in the mud that looked like someone had rolled in it.”

“You think she went far?”

“Can’t have, at least not too far. Clint, she’s gotta be terrified out here, and it’s almost dark. We can’t...I can’t…”

“Stay where you are and I will meet you with flashlights and a medkit. I’ll call the garage and leave a message so they know Y/N won’t be in for the next few days. We’ll find her Nat. We’ll get Y/N home and we can talk this all out and help her.”

Natasha wanted to believe him when Clint said that they would find you - that you would come home and she could help you and that you would be alright. But she knew there was every chance that that wouldn’t happen. Over the years, Natasha had seen too much. Too much violence, too much fear and panic and hate, too much bad - and those experiences made it just that much harder to believe the man who had saved her all those years ago. Still, she would look for you - wouldn’t let her darker thoughts stop her from searching all through the night and into the next day to find you.

The pair searched for hours, Clint having swum his way across the river so that they could search both banks and the surrounding areas. Everywhere they looked, they saw you - washed up on the bank, crouched behind bushes and in the tall grass, even hidden in the branches of trees. They had been trained to track people, S.H.I.E.L.D and the Red Room had both required extensive training for just this purpose, but Natasha wasn’t an expert tracker and neither was Clint. This, unfortunately, meant that they were much slower than they wanted to be. 

Clint was sure you would have gotten out of the water at some point. You would have gotten tired and needed to hunker down for the night, but Natasha was constantly watching the surface and the fallen trees with branches that were bound to cling to debris. Her stomach twisted every time she thought she saw you tangled in those branches, limp and beyond her reach.

Without warning, just as the sky began to lighten, Lucky took off into the brush, tail high and ears perked. Natasha wasn’t far behind, careful to be quiet even though the light would alert you if you were awake.

><><><><><

You couldn’t be sure when you passed out. Somewhere during the night, you had heard several male voices, and in a panic, you had tried to change hiding spots. Except they saw you. Muted gunshots echoed in your ears as you had broken into a sprint to the river, sure that if you could throw yourself into the current you would have a chance of getting away. Just at the edge, though, another shot rang out and you felt a familiar explosion of pain in your side. You didn't have time to stop and try to staunch the bleeding, to feel for an exit wound, as you flung yourself into the river and let yourself sink. Only when your lungs were about to give out did you surface and let yourself drift for a while before dragging yourself out on what you hoped was the opposite bank. As you lay in the mud, you felt your abdomen for the exit wound, sighing in relief when you found one. You didn't want to risk running around with a bullet buried in you. Forcing yourself into an upright position, you stripped off your shirt from beneath the grey jumpsuit you were still wearing from work and ripping it down the middle before tying it securely around where you hoped the wounds were. It would have to be good enough because you couldn’t see and neither could you afford to stay on the bank any longer than you already had. 

Struggling to your feet, you pushed into the woods and away from the river, trying to strain your eyes in the darkness for a suitable place to hide. Except it was pitch black and you couldn’t see anything. You weren’t surprised when your ankle twisted under you and you tumbled into a small ditch. Annoyed, yes, but at least you had a chance of being a little harder to spot. Your ankle throbbed and your abdomen continued to radiate pain as you lay in near silence, straining to hear even the slightest noise, the tiniest indication of not being alone. Except when you heard nothing except the wind and crickets, the burning behind your eyes finally got to be too much and you closed them. _Only for a minute_ , you had told yourself, _just to ease the burning_. Except it wasn’t just a moment because you ended up passing out. 

You drifted in and out after that, not completely sure if you were awake or dreaming. In the darkness, Lucky appeared, then Natasha, her face twisted into a grimace. Then Clint was there and there were muffled sounds, maybe talking, but you couldn’t grasp anything more before you were swallowed by blackness again. Pressure on your abdomen. Stabs of pain at the slightest movement. Swaying. Nausea. Soft warmth and running water. Gentle whispers and soft fur. Something vaguely sweet and floral. Coffee.

The next time you were aware of anything beyond pain and darkness, you were warm and comfortable, though thoroughly disoriented. For a moment, you panic. They must have found you and hauled you away while you were weak from blood loss and exhaustion. But that couldn't be what had happened, you were too comfortable. The warm pressure on either side of you was relaxing, enough so that within seconds your eyes drifted closed again, any worry of having been found by the wrong people dissipating.

When you were finally lucid and fully awake, you realized where you were. The familiar light blue walls of Clint and Natasha’s room were made softer by the early morning light coming through the sheer, white curtains that you and Natasha had found at a garage sale one day when you were running errands. Shifting slightly, careful to not upset the dull throb in your abdomen and ankle, you could see Lucky sleeping at the foot of the bed with his stuffed lion between his paws and Clint curled up in a chair in the far corner, fast asleep.

Since he had gotten back, you had made a conscious effort to talk to him more outside of meals and house repairs. Clint was nice, as you had always known, but you learned it was a niceness born out of genuine kindness rather than wanting something out of you. He kept his distance most of the time, careful to not be too close or too loud even though you knew he would normally do both because you saw him do it with nearly everyone else he met. As a result, you had gotten more comfortable around Clint, not freezing up whenever he walked into a room or tried to strike up a conversation. You had made the effort partially because Natasha trusted him and you trusted Natasha, but also because you felt guilty for taking advantage of his offer to stay in his home and then avoiding him. Now the guilt was even worse. 

Rule five - you were supposed to call Clint or Natasha if you ever felt unsafe.

You hadn’t ever stopped to consider calling Clint or Natasha when you were at the garage. Instead, you had taken forever to get home through the woods and then bolted at the first sign of danger instead of trusting that they would help. That was another thing...you had very likely broken rule three and unintentionally brought unwanted company to the house - and then left Natasha and Clint to deal with the situation on their own. You were supposed to trust them, but you had reverted to your old mindset at the first sign of danger. Needless to say, the realization felt about as unpleasant as the gunshot wound.

And yet here you were, in their bed, as safe as you could possibly be with Him looking for you. 

“You look like you’re thinking too hard, Myshka.” You turn to see Natasha slipping into the room with a steaming mug and a paper medicine cup, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“I - I’m sorry I ran,” you sniffled. “I should have called you when I was at work and then someone was here and it was probably the police and I know you don't want people here at the house but I-”

“Myshka, Y/N, it’s alright,” she soothed, sitting on her half of the bed and sipping at whatever she had brought up. “We aren’t mad at you. Worried, yes - we were very worried when you weren’t home, and you just about gave Clint a heart attack when we realized you had been shot - but you’re here and you’re safe. That’s all that matters to us, Myshka.”

“How did you even find me? I know I wasn’t all that careful, but…”

“It’s part of our jobs,” Natasha shrugged, reaching over and gently running her fingers through your hair. You, for the first time, realize that you aren’t covered in dried mud and that you are actually very clean, not to mention not in your own clothes. You have no clue what you’re wearing in the way of pants, but you’re in a tank top - the first in many years - and your scars are exposed. You feel completely naked, but it somehow doesn’t bother you as much as it should. You could see Clint and Natasha’s scars all the time as they both had several, so you knew they wouldn’t think any different of you for having some too, but you had been so used to wearing long sleeves that it almost felt wrong to not be wearing them now. Noticing you staring down at your arms, Natasha sighs. “We had you get you clean, Y/N. We didn’t want to risk any kind of infection.”

“It’s just...I don’t think I’ve looked at them in a while. I try not to when I shower, and I’ve always got them covered with long sleeves...do - do you think they look bad?”

“Yeah,” Clint huffs, adjusting himself in the chair, “bad-ass.”

“You dork, that’s not what she meant,” Natasha scoffs, but you can see she’s a little amused. “They look fine, Y/N. Honestly, they’re better than some of Clint’s. There's one on his ass-”

“We are not talking about Budapest,” Clint yelped, waving his hands in front of him as if it would stop Natasha from talking about whatever happened. For what felt like the first time in a long while, you huffed out a laugh. Though, you immediately regretted it when your side ached in pain.

“Here, these’ll help,” Natasha said, handing you the medicine cup with four different pills in the bottom. “We don’t normally have to break them out at home, but we use them all the time at work.” 

You felt badly when you looked down at the small paper cup and your stomach twisted. Natasha wouldn’t give you anything that would hurt you. You had passed that stage a while ago, but you were still nervous. Natasha wasn’t Him. Clint wasn’t Him. Even still, your first instinct was to tongue the pills and spit them out the first chance you got. 

Forcing down the nagging voices in the back of your head, you tip the cup back and swallow the pills dry. Natasha gave you a small smile, and even Clint looked proud that you had taken the pills after only a small moment of hesitation. You knew as well as they did that even just a few weeks ago you would have tried to avoid accepting the medication all together.

“You’ll have to keep taking them for a while,” Clint sighs, the smile slipping away. You realized almost immediately that you missed it. “That wound in your side isn’t pretty, and it’s more than likely is gonna scar pretty bad, but we’ll try to do what we can to prevent the worst of it. You did well though, Y/N, that shirt you had all tied up probably stopped you from bleeding out before we found you.”

“Well at least I managed to do something right,” you huffed. “Shouldn’t’ve been shot in the first place.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Natasha growls, and you can’t help but shrink into the bed and try to make yourself smaller. The action does not go unnoticed by either Clint or Natasha, and the redhead is quick to begin carding her fingers through your hair again. “I didn't mean it like that,” she sighed. “I’m not mad at you, Y/N, I just…”

“We worry,” Clint said, getting up and sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed near your feet. It was probably the closest you had ever been to him without flinching away. “Natasha and I can’t help you if we don’t know what you need, Y/N. Someone’s looking for you, and they were desperate enough to steal a police car and uniform to find you. Y/N,” Clint gently lay a hand on your uninjured ankle, the blankets keeping him from making actual skin contact, “please, let us help you.”

Glancing up at Natasha, the redhead gives you an encouraging smile and lightly squeezes your shoulder. You had been safe here for months and, at some point, the farm had turned into your home. You had lost home a long time ago, but you remembered that home was the people around you, not necessarily a place. 

Natasha was home. Her small, reserved smiles and twinkling eyes that seemed to know so much more than she let on made you feel warm and safe. She was quiet and attentive, unobtrusive in her small gestures - food you enjoyed, an umbrella by the door when it might rain, small, barely-there touches in passing.

Clint was home, too. This was harder to admit to yourself because he looked like Him in so many ways that for a while you had jumped every time you saw him. But, somehow, Clint’s loud laugh and quirky sense of humor soothed your frayed nerves after long days of working. His stubborn attempts at getting closer to you now endearing rather than frightening. His clunky steps echoing in the house because he never remembered to take off his shoes were a distant reminder that you weren’t on your own anymore. Where Natasha sent silent encouragement, Clint always seemed to brim with praise over the smallest acts. 

You trusted them. Everything could go so unbelievably wrong in a split second - it was a constant threat that seemed even more real now - but you weren’t as scared as before. They had followed after you - brought you home and kept you safe and warm and alive - when you had run at the sight of danger.

You didn’t want to lose this home.

You drew in a rattling breath glared at your arms.

“His name was James…”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Language, divorce, negative self thoughts/image, descriptions of abuse, talk of suicide, allusions to rape/non-con (not even a full sentence, not graphic at all), mentions of cheating
> 
> Word Count: 1709

You had met James in sixth grade - it had been the very first day and you had gotten lost in the new building and arrived late to class. He was the only one who didn’t snicker when you crept in and squeaked out an apology to the teacher. He was in four of your seven classes and in each one he waited by the door for you after that first class, he said that if you were going to be late then he would do it with you. He was your first friend in that school and for a long time your only friend at all. 

Middle school had been hard for you, hard for everyone really with all the hormones flying around, but you were in a bad place. Your parents had split after years of screaming matches and slamming doors and late, alcohol-infused nights because of you and your special mutation. You had this ability to work with mechanics, no matter how complex. If you could get your hands on them, you could do just about anything. Your father loved you for it, the mutation made you invaluable to him and his business and it gave the two of you something to bond over. Your mother, though, hated that you were different. She couldn't stand that you were special or different and that you liked it - so rather than attempt joint custody, your mother told you just what she thought of what you could do and left you broken for your father to try and fix. You were a freak, you had heard it before, but having your mother say it shattered any pride you had in your abilities. James was there to pick up the pieces. 

It didn't help that you felt like a freak. None of the other girls in your school volunteered to take robotics, engineering, or workshop. The few that were in those classes did what they could to stay clean and avoid getting into the thick of the action, whereas you were always dirty and working on something. Good grades were a breeze despite the accelerated learning pace and double-advanced classes you were placed in despite your protests. You stuck out like a sore thumb, but James never tried to compare you to the other girls.

James treated you like any of his other friends, of which he had many. You worked on homework together, joked during classes, and were almost always attached at the hip between classes. To him, you were just one of the guys. Sure he was a bit rough, and you were always finding bruises from where he had punched you or jabbed his fingers into your sides, but he did that with all his guy friends. It was normal.

When your school announced that they were starting a high school, you nearly cried. You didn’t know if you could handle a big public school after three years of the relatively small private school you had grown used to. Sure they would only take twenty students from your grade, but you were guaranteed a spot between your high scores and teachers’ recommendations to keep you. James wasn’t guaranteed a spot though, and that terrified you. Desperate to not lose your best friend, you took to tutoring sessions and helping with papers and projects instead of just regular homework. You spent months helping boost his grades and getting him to take tests to get into advanced programs in other schools to entice your own school to keep him, though it meant less time at your father’s shop and helping run his business - something you had always done because of your innate ability to work with mechanics and your love for your father. Losing time working was acceptable, though, as long as you got to keep your best friend.

You clung to him in high school, relieved to have him in six of your seven classes in the first two years. The bruises were necessary now. If you didn’t have them, you didn't have him. You didn’t mind the trade-off. James was everything. Then came dual enrollment with the local college and you spent nearly every waking moment making sure James wouldn’t fail out and leave you alone. Your course load was double anyone else's at your school, but you didn’t mind. How could you when it meant that you were able to keep him around? You needed him. And if the bruises accompanied snide remarks about your weight and the cuts on your arms and legs because your mind was a maze of pitfalls and shitty mental health you didn't mind. You probably deserved it anyway. It would explain why no one else would be your friend.

Every college you applied to received two applications - one for you and one for James. Why would you go to a college, an unknown place with strange people, without your, now, boyfriend? Stanford University had accepted both of you. You flew through with flying colors, but James, no matter how much time and effort you put into helping him - writing papers, stressing over projects, emailing professors and advisors, - flunked out. You got a job to pay for the apartment since he couldn’t live on campus anymore. He stuck with you as you continued school and he started his own business, though he hated that you couldn’t spend more time with him. You deserved the bruises and cuts. Deserved the yelling and kicking because you were a terrible girlfriend. You never did finish the doctorate in electrical engineering, why would you when you had already done so much and disappointed James so severely. One doctorate and a master’s was more than enough, unnecessary even. Why did you need them when you could naturally control and manipulate anything mechanical. It was a good thing you could pay for those degrees because James shouldn’t have to pay for something so wasteful.

You lost your job. They didn’t want you anymore, they must have realized you weren’t worth much to them. James’s business, though, took off. Without school or your job in the way, you were able to spend all your time focusing on James and helping his business. You had to devote all your time pleasing him - if you didn't he would get angry, his friends would get angry, and you would be punished. Beatings, being left in the walk-in freezer surrounded by bags you didn’t want to look in and the smell of rotting flesh, and starvation became your standard. Touches you didn't want, clothes you hated because they made you feel cheap and exposed, and long nights with strange men fractured you further until you couldn’t keep the will to keep living as strong as you once had. Except, you didn't want to die...you just wanted to get out. To get as far away as you could and live a little.

Once, in seventh grade, you had seen Heathers. The movie was seriously fucked up, you hated it, but the girls you were watching it with, in an attempt to be accepted, thought the movie was brilliant. It turned out to have its uses.

You faked your suicide on your anniversary. The dining room was on the first floor and James was supposed to meet you there when he was finished with work, so you snatched the opportunity like the salvation it was. When the table was set and you had arranged everything in the way you knew he would like it, you climbed onto the table. Secure in your plan, you tied the thin rope just under your bust so it wouldn’t be obvious under the dress you wore and could be hidden by your long hair where it attached to the thicker rope you looped around your neck before you jumped and looped the other end around the chandelier and...dangled. For over an hour. James didn't bother to cut you down when he stumbled in, half-drunk with lipstick smeared on his neck and his belt still undone. You had listened as he cursed and yelled and raged on about how you made everything harder than it needed to be. About how good he had been to you, putting up with your mental problems and freaky abilities when even your mother thought you weren’t worth being around. How you should have been kissing his feet for the attention he gave you and thanking his friends for not being so disgusted that they couldn’t enjoy you. Now you were going to make him look bad to his partners, make him look like a fool for not being able to keep his bitch in line. 

And then he’d left you there, muttering about how he would have to find someone to get you down because he couldn’t be bothered.

Once the door had closed, and you were sure you were alone, you had cut the rope and dropped to the table as quietly as you could, your heart in your throat. Then you had climbed out the window, snuck to the garden where you had hidden a bag with what you thought you would need and ran. 

James had been looking for you ever since. You knew because you collided in Alabama nearly two months later while you were trying to get to your father. He’d nearly killed you then, only failing because you managed to run into heavy traffic and hitch a ride with a truck driver who thought you were just backpacking across the country.

That had been the last time you had seen James. You knew he had to still be looking, it was why you stuck to the woods and abandoned buildings like you had thought Clint’s house had been. You hadn’t trusted anyone since James, how could you when everything had gone so horribly? 

But then you met Natasha and Clint. Yes, those first few days had been terrifying, and you had nearly run in the middle of the night more than once because Clint looked so much like James that at first, all you saw was the man that had betrayed you. Slowly, though, you began to trust them both. You just had to hope they wouldn’t turn on you too.

**Author's Note:**

> First crack at a Clintasha fic and a reader insert fic. Guess we'll see how it goes. This is also on my Tumblr @RinTheHufflepuff if anyone prefers that format.


End file.
